


paint amber-hued

by guesso



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:49:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23794153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guesso/pseuds/guesso
Summary: They don't really believe him, when it's brought up in passing, that Prowl would ever Not be in control, especially with something that would make a mech so vulnerable. Jazz decides it would be better to show them - after all, they've all fragged before, right? That's all this is. [Right?]
Relationships: Constructicons/Prowl, Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 8
Kudos: 63
Collections: Prowl Week





	paint amber-hued

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I've been sitting on for a while, though Prowl Week finally kicked me into gear and I got it finished for the 4/22 prompt - Sensory.

_ They must have fallen into the Well while they were on site somewhere.  _

_ Or in some klutz move some scaffolding tumbled and smashed all their processors in. Wouldn’t that just be the way.  _

_ There’s no way this is actually happening, not really, not with how every relay from optic to memory banks is slowed in static, weighty lust, high resolution captures tagged Important, flagged to record directly to long-term.  _

_ Honeyed frame, made so soft, so warm in gentle yellowed light, draped in luxury across silken cushions and throws, arched just so, Primus it’s all so much; stark, sharp white dipped in something otherworldly, made malleable, radiating pulses of heat in time with the languid roll of hips - the black, too, has new depths, usually so cold and now so open, and oh the rich glint of blue cutting through that haze, dappling the pools this mech has become. Downright heavenly and sinful, this sublime scene, which must just be a fantasy, it must, _

_ Yeah changed my mind this must be the Pit, it’s gotta be; where else would we get tortured like this - can you overload just from watching something? - god, the Unmaker himself is just lettin us hang around in limbo or whatever projecting our ‘innermost desires’ or some slag, - Fuck this is so -  _ punctuated with a long drawn moan, doused in rumbling static, bright blue-white optics flickering off as his helm lolls off to the side _ \- Erotic. Sensual. Tender, even. So, so beautiful. He always is, but this, this is - I don’t think we could’ve imagined this - He’s so, undone _ , frame heaving down as he exhales, plating drawing near, drowsy, open-mouthed smile as he chuckles, breathless, somewhere in the back of his throat, somewhere else. Quick inhale, tick of overworked fans, a contented  _ ah _ sighed with the false spike pushing slowly into him, dragging out.

He’s been lost to them before, plenty of times, wrapped in the euphoria, dizzying charge, hum of their bond, them; lost himself as he conducted them, used their frames, crashed them all into overload, simultaneous or tipped over from feedback; ceased to be in any sense of himself, blurred six as one - but not like this. Here, he is vulnerable, yielding lead to his partner,  _ I trust you to walk me to the end of myself, to lift me from the weight of my mind, to break me in the best way, and to coax me back. _ It is out of his hands, floating through waves of sighs and smiles and singe of cracking light. 

They’ve done more than service him, they’ve done more than take his command, no mere transactions - they’ve laid him down in soft admiration, made real their gentle love, and, Real, Actual, at that, not just a byproduct of this thing they were forced into. He’s reciprocated, learned them, learned to love them, shown that in his own plentitudes, even if outsiders are unwilling to see. But this. This they’ve never seen of him. Even when he hasn’t been in control (supposedly), he was still in control (obviously), could turn the tide quicker than they could process, fool them into believing it was their call. He trusts them, they know, he’s just this way, after, well, everything; it’s his nature.

Unknown depths masked in quick visor, studying without giving word of where he’s looking. Jazz has taken on conductor where Prowl normally leads them, unravelling him, making chords whole(un)holy in this symphony. Plays him so beautifully and Prowl  _ lets _ him. 

The two had hardlined together, at the wrist on one arm, draping cords tethered at the hips as well. Large amounts of data fly back and forth, they can tell that much, files, scenarios, questions, solutions, they get pieces secondhand as the barriers of their bond slowly lower, all focus shifting to this input, transference not at all the usual arousing type they’d expected. Prowl is focused on the ceiling, though not seeing it, absorbed in concentration, laying flat, puzzling through statistics, probabilities, outcomes, various potentially related figures and numbers, and Jazz smiles down at him sweetly, taking his time brushing digits over plating. Warm up and orchestral tuning underway before the show, not missed on them; interesting, but in a passive way, knowing they’d never make chair, or, hell, that’s laughable and far too generous, be anywhere near any semblance of playing.

The piece sneaks up on them, luring them in, gently, the baseline thrum, steady rhythm, high light percussion trilling joyfully, mischievously. At some point he must have layered in something else, it had built up before they realized, warm and vibrating in their cores, and that’s a real honest charge that Prowl’s got going, even if he’s fighting it and pushing it aside, diverting processing power from sensory input to whatever the hell kind of complex thing he’s hashing out. He bends a leg to bring a pede to rest flat on the berth, shifting his weight, curving his hip plates upwards, but furrows his brow, apparently not giving any attention to the rest of his frame.

_ And speaking of shifting weight, has it been this hot in here the whole time? How long have our fans been running? _

They feel the zing of satisfaction and accomplishment as Prowl begins to send back small datapacks with what they assume are solutions to something, a little at a time, which seem like they’re getting mirrored back, laced with pleasure they’re more accustomed to feeling with hardlining. Jazz leans against Prowl’s bent leg as the charge between the two of them builds, continuing to trace patterns and aimless lines, dipping digits into seams, air of nonchalance.

The first time Prowl overloads, frame trembling slightly, it feels more like a maintenance thing to them, like defragging during recharge, just something he’s doing as a bodily function to get it out of the way, which is, weird, to say the least, but Jazz seems unphased. Light and faintly pulsing, it took some of the edge off, and Prowl seems content to continue mulling over his problem, washed in encouragement from Jazz’s field. The second time, more noticable, though hardly intense, Prowl’s processor stalls, and, arching off the berth slightly, he lets out a needy keen.

_ Hm. Looks like you’re runnin’ outta time, lover,  _ grin laced all throughout, Jazz says softly - all he gets by way of reply is a harsh exhale and a few resets of optics.

His processor is slower, now, muddled and foggy in a way they’re not used to. Just as determined, though perhaps, dare they say, a little frantic, he plows through data and interconnected maps, numbers, weaving it all together to make some kind of scenario that he can project different outcomes for (they’re relatively sure). The rush is not against an invisible timer, they realize, as Prowl begins to squirm, visible charge licking down his frame, but against his own body.

Betrayal and blessing, completed snippets are sent, lustfully, lovingly mirrored, bringing him ever closer to another impending overload, ever closer to a blasted solution to this ridiculous nonsense problem, mounting charge, mess of arousal, closer, closer, wild spinning of spark and hammering of fuel pump too much, heaving of plating and fans as his frame desperately tries to cool, closer,  _ so close, _ rocking of his hips,  _ oh primus,  _ frantic, frantic as he pulls the last of it together,  _ please, please, _

[and if, perhaps, they dent their modesty panels, or if the  _ clack _ of them snapping back is deafening in this room of whirring and soft begging, it goes unmentioned]

The instant the final piece is sent and boomeranged back with  _ approval, pride; you did amazing, beautiful, _ all at once his tacnet goes into standby, optics shutter, breathless, incredulous laugh melds into moan as he rides wave after wave of strut-deep overload.

[and fuck if that’s not enough to put them over the edge themselves, feedback crashing through the bond - though Jazz suggests they try to wait over internal comms, which gets them hesitant,  _ Primus _ do they need, want, but with every ounce of self restraint and resolve, they wait, and keep watching]

At this point, having been lulled back to shore, Prowl moves his pedes closer to him, slowly, and drops both bent legs down, soles facing each other, humming contentedly. Jazz scoots further up on the berth, now facing Prowl’s side, reaching down with his non-tethered hand to, of all things, knock on the modesty panel of Prowl’s valve, gently, with a raised brow pretending to frame it as a question, hue of his visor exposing it for the command it is. With a chuckle, he slides the panel back, exposing dripping protoform. Deft fingers work the outer node with ease, pleasure quickly pooling again, echoes of traced circles, feathered lines.

Finally, finally, after an eternity of enduring caresses and sweet nothings and a dazed endless smile that gave way to such light breathy laughter and fully pleasured moans and hazy sighs, finally two digits slide into him, sending sensors and nodes alight, which he bucks up onto, wordlessly begging them to go deeper, press harder, anything, and just as quickly, they're removed,  _ you bastard _ , all grumble and squint but none of it really reaches his eyes.

_ Me? How dare, after all I've done for you, _ tsking and pressing tethered hand to his spark, mock offense and flair distracting from the hand reaching behind him, pulling a false spike from under covers, twisting, shifting his weight to his arm so he can lean in close,  _ Thinkin’ y’might regret sayin’ that, mech _ , dangerous grin lingering, hovering just above parted lips, warm vapors.

Leaning back, he lines the spike up, pushes in slowly,  _ oh fuck,  _ groaned into the pillow Prowl has sunk into as he turns his head away, taking the toy to the hilt in one fluid motion is almost enough to set him over again, but a firm  _ No. Wait. _ replaces it instead with a frustrated rumble, exhale, unfocused eyes, lopsided smile that reads  _ I’m going to hate this; but we both know that’s not true. _

_ Yeah, no, that. That really all just happened, guys, we’re not, uh, dreaming or dead or anything -  _

_ Even if we were, slag for brains, you think we’d come up with something like this? We ain’t that good,  _ stuttering thought processes doing their best to piece together anything coherent after reviewing and catching back up to the present, which so happened to be a pliant, prone, puddle of melted Prowl, blissfully taking an agonizingly slow moving spike, completely out of touch with the rest of reality.

Reality also, coincidentally,  _ hah, god,  _ included all of  _ them _ , and, funnily enough, their entire gestalt bond, over which Prowl was broadcasting  _ everything _ , every last intimate detail of how slick and tight he was, every interior node burning and aching, the drag and squeeze of every caliper around and over the ridges of this spike being so leisurely pumped in and out of him, letting the heat and lust pool and curl deep in him, which, by association, all of them, feeling all of it second-hand but so vividly,  _ Primus I hope Jazz didn’t mean we had to wait too - I don’t think I can do this - don’t you idiots dare you’ll tip us all over, including him, god just, I don’t know, sit on your hands or something - that ain’t gonna help we’re already sitting in puddles here -  _

Disjointed bickering, feverish squirming, charge clinging one frame to another as they hung on, still transfixed by paint amber hued in dim bedside light, rocking, panting; normally so, so upright, put together, sure, calmly, cooly moving them, now laid completely unspooled, desperate and obedient to these patient guiding hands.

Hands that devilishly angled the toy up, pushed deeper, faster, to hit sensitive nodes, receiving a dizzy smile; Prowl himself a little shocked his charge could keep amping up, crackling hot in, over him, he’d definitely overload whether told to or not at this rate, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care, so enthralled, hearing echoes of himself pleading -- 

so of course it stopped. 

Vexing and beautiful that scheming tilt to familiar waters. Jazz held the spike still, positively beaming, pushing adoration and pricks of mischief into their overlapping fields, mingling with Prowl’s own frustration, love, waiting for some unknown signal that he should start again. Apparently finding it in heavy-lidded eyes, disbelieving-laugh-exhale-shake-of-head saved only for Jazz’s brand of shenanigans, he moved slow, shallow, picking up the pace and pressure as his lover arched up for him, pushing himself down into the pillows and berth, unconsciously bringing his legs up, closer together, attempting to close around him in vain. 

What delicious, wonderous sounds being wrung out of him, so nicely interspersed with the occasional rapture-induced word, half choked out past gasp and swallow and near delirious laugh,  _ so good, god, please, _ enjoying himself thoroughly, epitome of ecstasy.

So when he stops again, he’s met with rolling anger, frustrated howl, rigid frame beneath him. ( _ Hoo boy talk about flip of a switch) _ , but you know what, he kinda deserves the hate getting pressed into his field, he’ll admit, a little mean of him. Fun as hell, though.  _ Alright, easy, _ he blankets comfort and pets any plating he can reach with his (mostly) free hand, coaxing relaxation back into tense struts. He settles back in; it’ll take some work to get Prowl back to where he was, but he’s got time; he’s not goin’ anywhere, Prowl sure as hell ain’t goin’ anywhere, and the mechs in the audience’ve made a pond for themselves leakin’ like that so he figures they ain’t goin’ anywhere neither -- wouldn’t wanna miss the grand finale, after all.

Fields brought back down to an easy, intermingling simmer, tension still palpable through hazy acceptance, Jazz works around the toy, broad strokes against valve folds, firmer pressure on the deliberate downswing of circles about the anterior node. Taking the eventual relaxed slump of shoulders and small, content tremors of doorwings as his cue, he nudges the toy, testing. Careful, he gives shallow pushes, wiggling enough to loosen and pull out with ease.

A quiet  _ mm? _ is soon answered by Jazz moving into the space between Prowl’s legs, mindful of cords, greeted with a surprising wash of genuine happiness and love. It’s been a while, a long while, since they last did This, and if Jazz is a little choked up about the unintentional emotion of it all as he drinks in the sight, well, he’s got a visor for lots of reasons. A visor that is apparently see-through, the way Prowl stares right into him, not pleading, asking; still, yes, lustful, admiring, but of all things: laden, heavy with trust. Softly:  _ Lift up for me, beautiful _ , so he can lay a cushion down underneath. Lining up his spike, he slides in, practiced and novel, rewarded by low moan and open smile.

Completely still, just for a second, reveling in the sensation of  _ home _ for the first time in eons. Slow drag out, forceful, hard thrust back in - shocked, sharp cry as deep clusters of sensors were hit, and again, and again. 

His, but not only, this multifaceted mech. This dewey, sapling thing they all are now. He finds contentedness where before might have been anger, never jealousy but outright concern. They’re different, and, what a loaded thought, he finds in the dips and angles of a frame to the left of center. It doesn’t mean any better or worse. Makes him special, unique, maybe, if that didn’t curdle and drip down his intake. He didn’t have to be, not at all, not if anyone else had been willing to see past the end of themselves.

He’s glad, yes, in a twisted way, that this is still Theirs, that for oh how weary, shameful, for unmentionables and past selves for estranged nights and firewalled memories - here he still is, held thrumming in the light of his light. Home can still be home upon ripples of when they were young and (k)new.

_ Not ‘xactly like we’ve ever been the most uh, morally great people anyways, but, should - should we be watching this? _ How could they begin to tear themselves away, spark of their spark thrumming. Gentle and intimate, in their own rights, yes they’d learned, obviously, but they were not, could never be - not like this. They would never be his beloved. 

So awash in the sea of himself he wades out into the depths, where other sparks sing and turn in time. The static and crack of the eternal storm at last quelled, and if this should merely be the eye, after everything it matters little, for at least he is (they are) here, whole. He lures in the buoys, pulling close. Tentatively the tendrils of self become lost to one another, merging first in disbelief, then eager, thankful. It is not beautiful and soft, it is not the love of stories. It is not rosy but the sharp green of waves chopping under black clouds on an alien world. It is rage and hatred, misaligned morals, unbelievable actions, disgust and honesty and learned patience. It is not beautiful but it is theirs. It is ugly and it is love.

Spooled out but tethered here, he looks to the anchor, so dim and minute in him. Ages of neglect, he knows, even when they were one and the same. He takes the leap, reaching out. Aches as they find another through their muted bond, equally splintered and shattered and fearful but rich and melodious as he remembers. It is not rosy, either, and laughable to think the two of them ever could have been. It is not beautiful and soft but lurking navy, obscured dark trenches, layers and fathoms below. It is arguments and fear, mismatched methods, knowing, unknowing, shame and honesty and learned patience. It is not beautiful but it is theirs. It is also ugly and it is also love.

On whatever plane their bodies all exist he knows his name is whispered, fervent, he is told something he only catches the end of -  _ for us, lover _ , but all he is, they are, suddenly, all at once, is painful white crashing into shore, riding the waves as the tide comes in.


End file.
